


Good To Be Back

by susiephalange



Category: The Martian - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Swearing, but not bad swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: You met in college. Married, got to work together at NASA. You're in SatCon, he's in the ARES III astronaut program. But when he's reported dead on Mars, you're more than a wreck. Thank God for your good friend Mindy Park, and a steely-eyed missile man who're working hard with you to bring him home.





	Good To Be Back

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request on my Tumblr from an anonymous user. 
> 
> I love Mark. Probably more than I should. I read the book back before the movie came out, and fell for his charismatic nature back then. It's been years, and I'm still not over our Mars Potato King.

You can still remember the first thing Mark Watney had said to you, when you met in college – “ _It’s not as bad as it looks, I’m fine_ ,” because the guy had just fallen down a flight of stairs trying to get from his botany classes to mechanical engineering in time. He’d gotten a bit bruised, sure, and the notes he’d been holding were splattered everywhere, but apart from his ego being a little damaged, the man was fine. He’d said the same thing after his stag’s night for the wedding had gone south (another stag party decided to ramp up the tension, resulting with Mark needing stitches in his eyebrow the day before the wedding), and still, you worried.

But now, he wasn’t there to say those words. Reassure you with puns and silly memes he’d found on his Facebook feed from the other astronauts.

It was completely fantastic how the pair of you had been accepted into the same workplace over the years, brought into the same sphere. Except, while you were the grounded one in the relationship (as always), he was two feet off the ground, and in the astronaut program.

Mr. Sanders, Director of NASA had seen to you personally, since you were his closest family. It killed you to hear it so factually, even if it was your profession in SatCon. _His coms unit severed, deceased, and left behind on Mars after the ARES III crew were forced to depart_. Smiling to the man in charge of your pay check, you politely excused yourself to the bathroom, and sat yourself on the closed lid of the toilet.

It’s then when the door is shut you feel the tears coming. Back in college on a drunken night in with old friends, they’d mentioned how dangerous the space program was potentially. Of course, you’d all been off your faces, and thought that space travel was as simple as on Star Trek. But damn it, it was 2035, not 1962; NASA had more tech than when the _Friendship 7_ circled the Earth. You had met Vogel and Johanssen, and they’d promised to keep him safe. He was supposed to be safe. Not dead.

“Damn you, Mark,” you hiss.

“_________?” A co-worker calls out, the sound of the bathroom door opening. Mopping your eyes with toilet paper, you take a deep breath, flushing the toilet before you go. “You just ran off. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Just needed to go.”

* * *

 

_Sol 37_

_I’ve figured out how to make water, but I don’t think NASA will like it. They left me on here, so I don’t really care what they think, I just needed water. I mean, it was an accident and all, no hard feelings to Commander Lewis, and all. Anyways. I blew up a lot of shit (namely, almost myself), all in the name of science and survival and all that._

_I keep thinking of what they’re thinking of me back on Earth. You know when you’re a moody teenager, wondering about what people will think about you once you’re dead? Well. That’s me now. Except I’m like, a full-grown adult, married and all. I keep thinking of _________, and how she’s doing. Probably not that great. When her grandpa died, she was a mess for ages. I don’t blame her. He was a great guy, always snuck those nice boiled candies into bingo night at the nursing home for his friends._

_What I’d give for candy. No. What I’d give to tell my wife I’m not dead._

* * *

 

It’s hard to keep going on. Of course, everyone is asking you to take leave, take time off for your grief. You almost consider it. A week goes by, and then you accept it, taking time to cry by yourself in the apartment that barely smells of Mark anymore, remnants of him everywhere. He’d never put his things away; toothbrush laying by the stand, slippers kicked off by the bed, the coffee cup he’d been drinking from, empty and sitting all lonesome on the coaster by the plant on the breakfast bar. There’s no body to bury, there’s nothing but what you’re living in. Every day, you miss Mark, missing him more, and more, and more, until you can’t handle it anymore. Some days, you can’t get out of bed. Sometimes, you can’t open your eyes.

But one day, there’s a phone call.

You’ve been friends with Mindy Park since you both started the SatCon program, sharing numbers ages ago. When her picture starts vibrating on the bedside table, you find some energy, reaching over to answer the call.

“_________?” Her voice is oddly perky, especially for the hour.

You blink, flicking the bedside light on. You had barely any sleep, or maybe too much; you can’t remember, it’s been so scattered, and your eyes feel almost like they’ve been pissed on by a cat and left to burn (not that that’s ever happened to you, but you imagine it to feel incredibly painful).

“Hey,” you croak. “Is something wrong? Did I log something wrong?” You ask her.

Mindy makes a noise, almost like she’s shaking her head, but realising it isn’t a video call, adds, “Nope. Good news. Mark is alive, _________.”

You swallow, “A-alive?” You stammer, and sitting up too fast, you feel the blood drain from your head, and a little woozy. “This isn’t a joke, please, tell me it isn’t a joke, Min,” you almost pray.

“It’s real. And I’m working with Vincent Kapoor, too. You need to get here as soon as you can, we need your brain on this,” She gushes. “_________, Mark Watney is alive, and you can help bring him home. We all are.”

You’re already out of the bed, stumbling toward the shower to get cleaned up. “I’m on my way, Min.”

* * *

 

_Sol 223_

_It’s shitty being alone on a planet, but you know what? There can be perks. I don’t have to fight anyone on the music. Except Commander Lewis. When I see her again, I will tell her where she can stick her records. Why nobody else brought music, it baffles me, because I’d kill for anything. German hardcore metal. Those recent pop music things Beck likes. Hell, I’d kill for showtunes._

_Now I’ve started talking to NASA, they won’t shut up. Can’t a man just enjoy a life-threatening one-man holiday on Mars? All I’m missing is a pair of schmuck sunglasses and a bottomless piña colada. I’m waiting for them to tell me I can talk to _________. I mean, when all’s good and well on the Hermes and I’m on it, I’ll see her face, and tell her about all the crap I’ve been through. Might even grow this beard out, it might just make the whole desolate final frontier look complete._

_I’m not really that upset about the music. I’m just worried about how much TV missing. If they’ve cancelled my show, I swear to –_

* * *

You still feel like shit, but you’re a piece of shit whose brain is working a million miles a minute with the bigwigs of NASA. When he’s able to, you’re given the privilege of contacting Mark, using the messaging system in the Rover.

IT’S NOT AS BAD AS IT LOOKS, I’M FINE.

He tells you, making you laugh. The other people in SatCon don’t get the inside joke, and for a moment, you realise that it’s the first time in ages that you’ve laughed, and it makes you feel warm inside. Like Mark is already home.

DAMN RIGHT YOU ARE. COME BACK FOR ME.

You reply. Vincent Kapoor must take over the communications or there won’t be contact for a while, leaving you back to your desk to observe the weather maps and satellite pictures once more. Except, you’re feeling your heart beating a little faster, your lips perked up at the sides. You’ve still got those bags under your eyes, and your sleep schedule has gone to the shit house, since you’re working double shifts to keep him alive on Mars. You can’t do anything about the overabundance of potatoes, but sure as hell can you warn him about unprecedented sand storms arriving.

“You look pretty happy,” Mindy passes you a cup of coffee, smiling. You’re both at your desks in the SatCon observation area, currently waiting out the seventeen-minute period between the satellite changes. Opening the lid of the disposable cup, you see she’s remembered to add a marshmallow, just like how Mark likes his coffee. “I’ll try and get you more time to talk to him.”

Taking a big sip of your coffee, you sigh in contentment as the caffeine hits you. “You’re a saint, I swear, Mindy Park,” you tell her, resting your head upon her shoulder. Almost closing your eyes, you feel a wave of tiredness wash over you.

“Woah, you’re pooped,” she notes, taking your cup from you. “How about you take a nap, and I cover for your shift?” You nod, not even going to fight her on this. You’ve been up for the last forty hours waiting to talk to Mark. “Sweet dreams.”

* * *

 

_Sol 512_

_I’m going to soar. I might sound like that I’m proud to be the fastest man to go in space travel, but I’m scared shitless. There should be some consequence of it, maybe my organs get f*cked up, or my brain turns to custard, I don’t care. I just want to go home._

_I just want to go home to _________._

* * *

 

You’re faint when you hear the news. He’s on board. He’s safe. He’s coming home. Everyone is cheering. You’re sure the whole world is cheering. Mindy is jumping, and rushes to your side, and hugs you tight enough to maybe have a few ribs broken. You’re breathless, in a daze.

“ _I’ve got him_ ,” Commander Lewis’ voice over the coms is still ringing in your ears.

It’s still a year, or three before he’s back on the soil of Earth, decontaminated, and briefed and cared for, and back in your arms, in the apartment, but your heart is racing, a million miles a minute, and so is your brain.

“He’s coming home,” you whisper, still incredulous.

“He’s coming home.” Mindy agrees.

* * *

 

_“Yeah, I know I stink,” He tells the other guys. “Try not showering for a year and a half.”_

_Johannsen gags, her hands raised in surrender. “No-oo, no thanks.” Vogel nods silently, keeping his distance while the botanist smells like something that needs to be flushed away by the plumbing._

_“But Mark, that’s how you usually smell,” Martinez chimes in from the pilot’s seat._

_He laughs, glad to be back with the crew. “Screw you, Martinez”_

* * *

His first words to you aren’t the special words he’s used all these years. _I’m fine_. _It’s not as bad as it looks._ Nope. His face is lit up, like he’s the star atop the Christmas tree, the beard the team had been telling the NASA coms about shaven off. He smells of soap and _Mark_ and your arms are around him so hard that you wonder if you’re compressing him into a travel size by your vigour. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s good to be back,” he murmurs into your ear. “I missed you so much, baby.”

Your grip on him loosens, “You’re not going to tell me you’re fine?”

He laughs. “Only if you swear never to make me look at a potato for as long as I live.”

**Author's Note:**

> I actually used a lot of references to write this, so it was accurate! I looked over the screenplay, the wikia, and even a few science fiction web pages to work out how long a Sol was. Hope you guys liked it!
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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